


these wayward hearts

by fugitives



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: F/M, crackship, no regrets, totally crack yea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fugitives/pseuds/fugitives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The plan was to watch Dog Cops. But even the most well-laid plans (and the best intentions) can fall through sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these wayward hearts

**Author's Note:**

> It's a crackship that takes place in both Fraction's Hawkeye's and Kelly Sue DeConnick's Carol's timelines. Deal with it. (Also a birthday present for Katy HI KATY HI HOPE YOU LIKE IT)

She was up at daybreak, as per her usual routine, but this time there was a sense of reluctance weighing her steps as she padded down the hallway in a baby tee faded from multiple washes and a pair of boy shorts. She turned on the kitchen lights. Chewie slithered around her feet and rubbed its head against one foot, meowing softly. As the coffeemaker hummed, she leaned down and scratched the cat leisurely behind one ear. “Who’s a good kitty, hmm?” Her eyes caught the cordless receiver in its cradle on the wall and hesitated. Chewie seemed to sense it and slunk away almost respectfully.

The phone beckoned to her, making her heart heavy. She shook her head briefly. No, this isn’t any of her business. It was up to her best friend and her boyfriend to work things out between them. What if I’ll only make things worse?

The coffeemaker clicked. She removed the coffee pot and filled her usual mug with joe. But he was her best friend too, wasn’t he? Her free hand curled into a fist. How could he do this to her? To Jessica and—she caught herself. To Jessica. She didn’t deserve it.

But she should have known better, shouldn’t she, given Clint Barton’s long and (to put it mildly) illustrious romantic history. Sure, he was a reliable team mate, and he had his own code that, considering who he was before he became an Avenger, was admirable, but when it came to matters like these? That annoying song on the radio about trouble walking in—Carol found herself humming the first few bars and snapped out of it the moment the realization hit her.

Screw it.

She reached for the phone and pressed a button. Sometimes it disgusted her that she had him on speed dial.

“Mmfmmwho’s thfiss?”

“Get your ass up, Barton. We need to talk.”

She could hear the sound of covers shifting, punctuated with a barely disguised groan. “What time is it?”

“Early.”

Another groan. “What’s this about, Danvers?”

Son of a bitch. “You know perfectly well what.”

She could sense the tension on the other end of the line. Lucky barked, thankfully, punctuating the silence and prompting Clint to speak. “….. And this can’t wait until after the season premiere of Dog Cops?”

Despite herself, she closed her eyes and covered her face with one hand. “Shit, it’s today, isn’t it?”

“I thought you were a fan, Danvers. You disappoint me.”

“I am! I’ve just been so busy that I—” she replied in a flustered manner—wait, that wasn’t—how did he always manage to do that whenever she was determined to be pissed at him? “That’s not the point.”

“Don’t care.” His voice was smug now and it made her blood boil. “You forgot. And the punishment for that is that you have to sit through a Dog Cops marathon with me until the show starts.” Her lips moved soundlessly, frantically trying to form a coherent protest while on his end, the covers rustled and Lucky barked again. “I’m comin’ over in ten.”

“What? Wh—” The line went dead.

—

He turned up in fifteen.

“It’s a miracle Cap hasn’t kicked you out of the team for tardiness,” she grumbled as she stepped back to let him in.

“He and I have come to a mutual understanding that punctuality ain’t exactly one of my strong suits.” He didn’t so much as step over the threshold. Instead he looked her up and down. She was still dressed in her tee and shorts.

“What?” she asked flatly.

“You gonna head out dressed like that?”

She glared at him. “You didn’t say anything about going out!”

“Well, I just did.” He grinned apologetically. She slammed the door in his face and shouted, “Ten minutes.”

She emerged in seven, dressed in the same baby tee but with jeans, her favourite leather jacket and her hair pulled into a ponytail. She wasn’t aiming to impress anyone, least of all Clint Barton, and she made a point of demonstrating that to him by giving him a pointed look as she walked past him across the landing and down the stairs.

To her surprise, Lucky was sitting in the backseat of his car. It pressed its nose against the window when she approached and Clint opened the door so that she could greet him properly. “What’s he doing here?” she asked Clint warily after they had returned Lucky to the backseat and she strode over to the passenger side.

“It’s his vet appointment today,” he replied apologetically.

She was halfway through opening the door. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What? I could use the company!”

“You expect me to wait with you while Lucky—god, Clint, you’re unbeliev—”

“Hey, I didn’t complain when you asked me to babysit Chewie that one time and it clawed my favourite sneakers to oblivion.”

She hesitated before finally shrugging. “Fair enough.”

—

“You know, this is why people have those fancy smart phones.”

He snorted. “Not my thing.”

She rolled her eyes and continued her game of Bejewelled.

They were sitting side-by-side in the vet’s waiting room. Lucky was two dogs, one cat, and one iguana away, and he was positively miserable. And bored. He tugged on his leash when dog made an attempt to sniff at him, but their respective owners had pulled them back before each dog had strayed too far. Clint glanced at the other dog owner briefly, then glanced again. It was a she, and she was pretty.

“Barton…” Carol said despite her eyes being glued to the screen.

“What?”

She stared incredulously at him now. “Really? You can’t even—”

“What kind of person do you take me for, Danvers?”

A lying, pathetic, no-good… She couldn’t find the words to finish the sentence. Tension bristled between them as neither refused to stand down. His glare was daring her to say it, say what she really thought of him, because he knew the answer and it couldn’t be anything good. And she would be right, because he knew that despite everything good he had tried to do, he was a rotten egg inside. Rotten all the way through.

She knew that he could tell what was forming in her mind, and fuck if he didn’t look like he wanted her to say it, as if by doing so, he could somehow absolve part of what he had done. That by admitting the truth he had known all along, he was punishing himself and once the penance was paid, at least some of the burden would be lifted. She bit her lip and looked away, and he knew that she wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily.

“Barton, Clint?” The receptionist’s meek voice wasn’t an entirely welcome disruption, but both were too furious to duke it out right there and then. Even after Clint reemerged from the consultation room (sans the dog) and returned to his seat beside her, she refused to say anything. 

So did he.

—

They remained silent until they got to his apartment. Clint had to carry Lucky up the stairs. The dog was still woozy from the anesthesia and drooling on his owner’s shoulder. “This has gotta be worse than takin’ care of a baby,” he remarked dryly. Despite the cold war they had earlier, Carol found herself chuckling as she unlocked the front door. “Chewie’s just as bad, if not worse.”

“That’s because it’s a cat.”

” ‘It’?” She punched his arm.

“Okay, okay. _She_.”

“That’s more like it.” It was as if the waiting room never happened.

Once they had made sure that Lucky was comfortable enough to sleep the rest of the meds off, Clint immediately lunged for his TiVo. “If we hurry we can at least get…” he glanced at the clock, “half of season 12 outta the way before the premiere.”

“I’ll get the popcorn,” she offered.

“Mmm.” He plopped onto the couch and hit the remote. Then his eyes widened. “Shit.”

She was already lifting the days-old dishes out of the kitchen sink and piling them noisily on the counter by the time he got there, which was at most, a few seconds later. The refrigerator door was open and revealed nothing in it save for half a six-pack and some hummus. He cringed and braced himself for an earful of—

She dragged him by the sleeve of his shirt out of the kitchen. “C’mon. We’re going shopping.”

—

“This is terrible.”

“Shut up.”

“We could have ordered some pizza and watched Dog Cops season 12 instead.”

“Shut up.”

“You are a terrible, terrible person.”

“If you’d quit whining and help me with your own groceries, maybe I’ll let us order some Thai food instead and we don’t have to miss the opening titles.” She held up two different brands of milk.

He sighed and pointed at one randomly. “Pizza.”

“Thai.”

“Pizza.”

“Thai.”

“Pizza.”

“Fine.” She looked at the two milk cartons in her hands and placed the one that he did not pick into the shopping basket.

He stared at the milk, then at her. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a terrible person?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

He snorted as they continued down the aisle in the direction of the checkout counter. “Do you make a habit of asking the same questions every few weeks, Danvers?”

****

“No, but the world would certainly be a better place if you didn’t call me ‘terrible’,” she said and arched an eyebrow at him. He sighed and began piling the groceries onto the conveyor belt, completely oblivious to the starstruck look that a five-year-old kid in the next checkout line was giving them. “I don’t think you’re terrible.”

****

“That’s better.” She gave a little wave to the kid, who tugged excitedly on his mother’s shirt and mouthed visibly, “It’s Captain Marvel!”

****

“I _know_ you are.”

****

The next sensation he felt was a swift jab in the ribs.

__

****

They ended up ordering Indian instead. The food arrived four minutes into the show, much to Carol’s delight and Clint’s annoyance. When Clint didn’t move after a third knock and a muffled, “Delivery for Mr. Barton!”, she nudged his foot with her own. If there had been any pillows to throw she would have had one flying at his head at once.

****

He let out a distracted ‘mmph’ and jabbed her shoulder lazily with his elbow. “You go.”

****

“He clearly said that it’s for you.”

****

“I’m not hungry.”

****

“I am.”

****

“Just--what’s so hard about--” Before he could finish his sentence, she had pushed him off the couch and sent him stumbling onto his feet. “Okay, okay! Relax, jeez! It’s just--oh, shi--” His foot caught on one of the wires that connected the television set--wait no, it was for the cable and--okay, he deserved it. He deserved the antenna getting yanked off the top of the TV and onto the floor. He deserved the screen going static and Carol giving an agonized yelp before yelling, “ _Barton!_ ”

****

It took him an hour to fix the reception. The first 10 minutes were spent restoring the antenna setup but it didn’t work, and after trying every possible position for the stupid plastic thing, Carol ordered him to go up to the roof and adjust the antenna there. By the time the screen no longer looked like it was throwing up virtual gravel, the show was over. “Great!” said Clint as he threw his arms into the air and tossed the remote onto the coffee table before dropping onto the couch beside her. “It’s over.”

****

She had already polished off the last of her lunch. “And whose fault is that?” she cocked her eyebrow again. He rolled his eyes. “I know, I know. It’s mine, okay? I’m sorry I screwed it up.” He paused and muttered under his breath. “Like I do almost everything, anyway.” He got to his feet to head to the kitchen. Her mock-sulky expression softened. She leaned forward to grab his wrist, but her fingers crashed into his instead. That was enough, apparently, for even as their fingers dropped, he stopped in his tracks. However, he didn’t turn around.

****

“Hey,” she said, standing as well, and opened her mouth to say something, but silence was all she could manage. Her mind scrambled for appropriate words. ‘Cheer up’ and ‘Oh c’mon’ didn’t seem like they would help. They stood in that manner for a few tense moments before he finally glanced back at her. “I get it, okay?”

****

She sighed. “Okay.” He had taken only three steps when she blurted out, “No, it’s _not_. It’s not okay.” She marched over to where he stood and walked around so that she was face-to-face with him. He averted his gaze from her. “Just don’t...”

****

“Don’t what?”

****

“I know why you called me.”

****

She knew that he was smarter than she usually gave him credit for, but now wasn’t the time to gloat or jape. “Then why?”

****

He still couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes. “I don’t know.”

****

“Why do you always...” she inhaled deeply. “Why?”

****

“I don’t know!” He glared at her. It took him a split second to realize that he had yelled at her. Like he had yelled at Kate. No, no, this wasn’t right. He couldn’t afford to push anyone away. But he hated it when they tried to poke through his defenses, seeking out the exposed flesh and sinking their barbed words as if it was actually fun. Hated it when they pointed out what was already obvious. Posing the same questions that had caused him sleepless nights.

****

Her breathing had grown rapid as she held up a finger and whispered, “Don’t...”

****

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” This time, he let his eyes met her own: a mixture of anger, confusion and frustration.

****

“You’re sorry? Is that the best you can do?” Her voice sounded much calmer. He turned away, ran a hand through his hair and faced her again. “I don’t know what else I can say, much less do.”

****

“She means a lot to me.”

****

“And she doesn’t to me?”

****

Carol smiled, but it was dry, hollow. He looked at her for a minute, then laughed softly. “How long have you known me, Danvers?”

****

She closed her eyes momentarily and when she opened them, they were directed at the ceiling. “Far longer than I expected, to be honest.”

****

“Glad to know I got something right, at least.” He grinned. She scoffed and punched him lightly in the arm. “Don’t push it, Barton.”

****

Their eyes met and for a moment they stood where they were, smiling stupidly at one another. “You’ve seen me at my worst,” he said in a low voice.

****

“And yet...” she said with a hint of a smirk.

****

“You’re still here.”

****

“Trust me, it’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

****

“What’s so hard about it? I’m irresistable.”

****

She sighed. “ _What_ did I say about pushing it again?” He was, though. She found her eyes straying to where his T-shirt collar grazed the nape of his neck, and she wondered if the shadow of that stubble on his chin and up the sides of his face would tickle if he--

****

Suddenly she was acutely aware of how close his face had gotten, and how heavy her breathing was. _Both_ their breathing, actually. “Don’t,” she murmured, as she had multiple times before. It always started out this way: a meagre attempt at resistance, the way his eyes seemed to undress her as deftly as his hands would. Her head ached, her heart lurched.

****

“I hate you,” she gasped just as their lips met in a rough, urgent fusion, and she sank into it almost gratefully. Her hands cupped the back of his head and pulled him close to her, drinking deep from the heat of his breath and his mouth upon her lips, then to where her jaw and ear met, and finally to her neck. “I hate you, too,” he said just before kissing her again.

****

She pushed him away and tugged his shirt over his head. “I hate you more.” The shirt dropped onto the floor. “Not as much as I hate you.” He made quick work of hers as well. “Idiot.” Her pants came off at the same time as his and she sank onto the floor. He parted her legs, the long legs he always caught himself staring at despite his best intentions and nestled himself between her, giving her a hard kiss on the lips. “Dummy.” The head of his already hard cock burned as it brushed against her clit, causing her to gasp. He adjusted his position, teased her clit open with his thumb and finger, and entered her in one swift movement.

****

Oh, she would definitely regret this, and it would be far from the first time.

****

But in that moment, nothing mattered but his cock tearing into her clit, searing and branding her as it moved in and out of her in a furious, unapologetic pace. She held onto his shoulders, those shoulders that she had always found herself kissing lately whenever they had slept together and she had gotten up before he did (she always did), but that was before he had... been taken. She closed her eyes. She had to shut it out. This was probably the last time she could allow herself to feel this way before... before...

****

He slowed down momentarily before stopping altogether. “Danvers? Are you okay?”

****

She realized that her eyes and cheeks were wet. Oh god, was she crying? In the middle of sex? “No, I’m, I’m fine,” she said as she wiped them away with the back of her hand. She adjusted her legs and put her arms behind his neck again. “C’mon, I--”

****

“No, you’re definitely not okay.”

****

“Barton...”

****

“I’m not gonna continue unless you’re okay with this.”

****

“Clint, I swear to God--”

****

He slipped out of her. “Hey...” She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling a sob taking over her body. She resisted it, tried to push it back to whence it came but the push-and-pull snapped apart like an elastic band that was stretched too thin, and she ended up heaving a dry sob instead. He gathered her to him and wrapped him in her arms while hyperventilation overtook her. It was the same sensation she had gotten in that dream where she was falling from the sky and all the oxygen was leaving her lungs; and even as she fell from darkness to the light that was Earth, there was a darkness far more fearsome that threatened to envelope her and choke the life out of her.

****

“It’s okay. It’s okay...”

****

“I’m sorry...”

****

He pressed his lips to her forehead and pressed it to his chin. “Hey, it’s fine.” He waited until her breathing had slowed down to an even rate.

****

It was the first time he had ever done that.

****

____

****

It had been a sound, dreamless sleep. When she opened her eyes next, the sky was dark outside. The bed was empty except for her. She was dressed in one of his shirts, the dorky one with the target on it. She snorted as she looked down at it. _Idiot._

****

Something good wafted in from outside his room. She crept out of bed and pulled on her underwear that he had left together with the rest of her clothes on top of his dresser and padded out. There was an open box of pizza on the coffee table. She should have known. Clint was seated on the floor with Lucky resting beside him, his head on his owner’s lap. She smiled to herself and tiptoed up behind him.

****

Lucky turned its head just as she lowered herself onto the floor beside him. Clint turned his as well. “Hey.”

****

“Hey.” She reached over and scratched behind the dog’s ears. “He looks much better.”

****

“Yeah, he’s totally out of it,” Clint replied, still studying her. “You?”

****

“I’m fine.” She didn’t look at him. “I won’t make that a habit, I promise.”

****

“I know you won’t.”

****

She furrowed her brows in his direction. He quickly countered, “I mean, y’know, you weren’t like that when we were uh, during... uh... our previous... uh... _sex_...”

****

“I get it, Barton.”

 

They sat in silence while she continued kneading and scraping her nails against Lucky’s soft fur coat. She loved petting Chewie, but Lucky had a longer coat, and it could get intoxicating after a few minutes. The dog’s warmth and his even breathing made it even more difficult to stop.

****

Until Clint broke the silence.

****

“Wanna talk about it?”

****

“Talk about what?”

****

“I don’t know, whatever’s eating you?”

****

She tensed. “Everything’s fine. There’s nothing to talk about.”

****

“You had a panic attack during sex. With me.” She closed his eyes and stopped her movement. “It’s noth--”

****

“It’s not nothing.”

****

“Don’t make me do this.” It was a half-plea, but it was just as futile as their attempts to resist each other, which could only be described as the midpoint between a broken record and a really bad joke. The first time they were both drunk, the battle had been hard and the rush of it got carried over through five bottles of beer (or was it six?) and into bed. The next few times were mainly because it gave them a thrill, and besides, they were both lonely and what was the harm of having a little fun? After all, it wasn’t like it was an unpleasant experience.

****

But now?

****

“Carol.” His voice, despite being gravelly and low, still managed to be persuasive, somehow.

****

She hung her head. She would probably regret this.

****

“I have a tumor.”

****

Silence.

****

“What?”

****

“It’s inoperable.”

****

“How?”

****

“And it gets worse--bigger--no, I’ll go with worse--every time I try to fly.” She felt oddly calm. Why had she even been reluctant to talk about it in the first place? Strange, Clint was not usually the kind of person she could picture herself opening up to. Carol was sure that she knew him pretty well, but what did he know about her? Relatively less? It both scared her and made her heart beat faster at the thought of it, as if the prospect of letting out parts of her to him gave her some kind of a thrill.

****

“That sucks.” Was all he could offer, and you know what? It was better than ‘I’m sorry’.

****

“Thanks,” she replied and smiled the best she could at him.

****

He smiled in return, albeit tautly. “Y’know when... when I went blind? For a few days, I mean. I was blind for a while.” The subject clearly made him uneasy. Carol shook her head. “You were? I didn’t... how?”

****

“Long story. But the thing is... it was... what I’m tryin’ to say is that I know how you feel. I’ve been to places so dark and low that I thought I’d never find my way back.” He paused. “Sometimes I even get nightmares about it. I’d dream that I would wake up from my sleep and everything would be dark. And in those dreams I’d get out of bed and do everything like I used to, only that I was _blind_. It didn’t matter that I could still use my bow and arrows, or even if I couldn’t. What scared me was not being able to see anyone’s faces again. What if I eventually forget what half of you guys look like? I don’t--” he cleared his throat in an attempt to hide an involuntary choke, “--I don’t have anybody, or anything, else in the world but this.

****

“Y’know, in the end--sometimes, the road can get scary, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna be an easy one, but it doesn’t have to be a lonely one, I guess is all I was trying to tell you.” He frowned at her. “You understand what I mean right?”

****

His frown, which appeared more like a sulky pout to her, made her heart lighter somewhat. “How are you gonna make it less lonely? By holding my hand?” She realized that she sounded cynical. _No wait, I take it--_

****

“If you’ll let me,” he answered seriously. That moment of silence hung between them again. It was something that they were both getting used to: that moment when they both tried to figure out if whatever they were doing was smart, or not smart. More often than not, it would be the latter.

****

“Really?” was all she could manage instead, like a freaking teenager.

****

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “Just... thought it’d be polite to ask.”

****

“Am I really that scary?”

****

“Nope.” He sat up straight and leaned towards her. “Just really hot.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Clint...” _Just shut up and kiss me_. He leaned in and kissed her, but this time softly, their lips kneading and pressing against each other in an unhurried manner. He lowered her gently onto the rug and pushed her--his--shirt up and pressed his lips just above her belly button. Lucky seemed to take the hint and trotted away while he peeled her underwear off and slid it down the length of her legs. She began to laugh, but it was cut short by his tongue against her--oh, _oh_.

****

“Whatever you d-d-do,” she rasped out, her fingers digging into the rug and clutching fistfuls of the fabric, “don’t stop.” And he didn’t, until she came with a breathy shout. He straightened up and pushed down his sweatpants and underwear, but she sat up instead. “No,” she said with a mischievous grin. His eyes widened as she tugged her shirt off, then his, and pushed him onto the floor before straddling him.

****

“Danvers...”

****

“Ssshh.” She pressed a finger to his lips while her hips hitched upwards, grazing the length of his rapidly hardening cock against her inner thigh. A barely inaudbible ‘sweet Jesus’ escaped his mouth while she giggled and leaned over him. “Has anyone told you that you talk too much?”

****

Even with his brain in the process of short-circuiting, he still managed to come up with a smug, “Not recently, no.”

****

“Well, you do.” She lowered her hips, and, using her hand to guide his cock to her entrance and sank herself slowly onto it. His moans sent tingles racing up her spine, his hands reaching up to hold onto and dig into her butt as she rode him--slowly and leisurely at first, until his hands urged her to go faster by tugging her rhythmically towards him in a push-and-pull that hit her hard just where she needed it to until they came together in a laughing, flushing and tangled mess of limbs, skin and hair.

****

“Hey,” she mumbled suddenly. He propped himself up on an elbow. “Huh?”

****

She glanced up at him from where she had tucked her head underneath his chin. “We totally missed Dog Cops today.”

****

“Oh ye of little faith. Don’t worry, I got it TiVo’d.”

****

“I came all the way out here for nothing.” Her voice dropped onto a murmur as she turned onto her side, her back facing him. The fabric of the rug was strangely inviting. “I hate you, Clint Barton. I hate you so much.”

 **  
**His laughter was dark and muffled against her shoulder as he pressed his lips against it. “Me too.”


End file.
